Mrs. Danvers became thoughtful, until an impatient movement from her husband forced an opinion from her. “I don’t know, Israel. I guess she likes him better than she pretends to, and you’ve no occasion to worry about her marrying him. Wild horses wouldn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to do; but I don’t know all her mind about Fordyce. She understands me better than I understand her.”
Surprised at this unlooked-for admission, he said, agreeably, “She’s a clever little coot.”
“Clever,—she’s the smartest girl I ever saw. She’s too smart. I’m afraid Fordyce will have trouble with her.”
“Clever, how clever?” interposed Mr. Danvers, up in arms for his favourite. “You don’t mean to say she’s sneaky?”
“No, not sneaky,” said Mrs. Danvers, in deep thought; “not sneaky, but shy and nervous, and pretending she’s got plenty of coolness when she hasn’t, and more one for getting her way secretly than openly. And she’s full of tricks and moods and quirks of all kinds. You don’t understand her, Israel.”
Mr. Danvers did not know whether to be gratified or annoyed by his wife’s expansive state of mind. She had never before spoken just so freely of their adopted daughter. “I don’t try to understand her,” he said, doubtfully. “I just take her as she is.”
“Fordyce don’t. He wants to know every thought in her mind,” proceeded Mrs. Danvers, “and thinks he knows them, too, but sometimes he’s too sure.”
“He’s too short with her, too short,” observed Mr. Danvers, pettishly. “He ought to take into account that she’s got a will of her own.”
“He’s a primitive man; he’d kill any one that took her away from him. You see he’s got nothing but her.”
Mr. Danvers was silent. He did not know what she meant by a primitive man.